


Until The Last Star Falls

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Incest, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Only Sansa remains to him of the life he’d known so long ago, and if taking her to his marital bed with Daenerys is an unorthodox way to keep her close, he can no longer find it in him to care.





	Until The Last Star Falls

**Author's Note:**

> For the thekinksidoforlove kinkmeme prompt: Jon fucks Dany, while Sansa rides her face.

Sansa has always been thoughtful. It’s a strange thing to think about the girl who’d called him her bastard half-brother once she learned just what the words meant, and who’d treated him with a sad, gentle echo of her mother’s cold distance more often than not, but it’s true. For every time Sansa said it was improper for Jon to sit at their table in the Great Hall, there was a time she left a gift on his pillow for him at his nameday, every rueful slight was balanced by an easy kindness, such that although they were never close, Jon had always thought fondly of her in the intervening years, allowing time to erase the uncharitable moments and holding her generosity of spirit close to his heart.

The years have not changed her generosity, it seems, as she clutches the headboard and hesitates when she’s about to throw her thigh over Daenerys’s face, and turns to face Jon instead.

“I thought you might like a more…interesting view,” she says shyly, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair, a flush echoed in the pink blooming at her chest, her belly, her knees. She lets Dany pull her down with grasping hands, and the way she jerks up instinctively with a gasp before settling down onto Dany’s mouth could have Jon spilling inside Dany instantly, awkwardly, like a green boy getting his first taste of a woman rather than a man who’s bedded his wife countless times in the first year of their marriage. He has to still instantly, holding Dany motionless at her hips, thinking of offal and privies and Tormund Giantsbane’s breath to keep from losing his control.

Sansa has that effect on him, it seems. Once the thought would have shamed Jon greatly. But then, once Jon had valued denying himself his heart’s secret, most desperate desires, as if that might let him transcend the circumstance of his birth and prove his worth to the people he’d realized too late accepted him as he was.

They’re gone now, Ygritte, Robb and Arya and Bran, the man Jon had believed so long was his father. Only Sansa remains to him of the life he’d known so long ago, and if taking her to his marital bed with Daenerys is an unorthodox way to keep her close, he can no longer find it in him to care. She is happy. Dany is happy. Jon could die trying to keep them both pleased and sated, and be happy in the attempt. It is enough. 

“It’s Targaryen,” Dany would say, as she has many a time before, were her mouth not occupied. She makes a dissatisfied sound, one muffled by Sansa’s cunt – _Gods_ , Jon is inside his wife, watching her tongue Sansa’s cunt, he may never survive – and wiggles her hips against his hands. 

“I think,” Sansa pants, hands fluttering at her sides as she searches for some way to brace herself while she rocks against Dany’s face, very nearly riding it like she would a horse, “I think she wants you to, ohhhhh… To keep going.” She settles on leaning backwards, lifting her arms to find the bedstead behind her head and curl her hands around the top of the carved wood. It does marvelous things to her tits. It’s a stretch to lean forward and suck the tip of one breast into his mouth, but Jon manages it for a brief moment before he has to correct his balance. 

“Unlike that bedstead,” Jon tells her, “I am not made out of wood. There’s only so much I can stand.” Distantly, he marvels that he can tease and make gentle japes at such a time. Not for the first time, he wonders if the pull of happiness – of love and lust and belonging – would have been so intoxicating, so strong, if all three of them hadn’t suffered so before this. But then Dany is making another sound and tightening her muscles so that her cunt squeezes his cock like a hot, wet hand gloved in velvet, and Jon can only groan and begin to drive into her with an intensity bordering on violent.

It all mingles together then, all sounds and sights and feelings. The shiver of Sansa’s soft flesh, the tangle of her hand in Dany’s on her hip. The pink flash of Dany’s tongue in Sansa’s maidenhair, the soft pad under her chin that always pierces Jon’s heart with a love nearly akin to anguish at how vulnerable it makes her seem. The sound of Sansa’s whimpers, Dany’s moans and moving tongue, the rasp of Jon’s breathing in his ears and the thunder of his pulse in his veins, the wet sound of his cock moving inside his wife as he fucks her. The give of her hips as he sinks his fingers hard and deep, the scent of her mingling with Sansa’s – the scent of lavender and lemons and desire. The sound of Sansa peaking, then the feel of Dany on Jon’s fingers as he finds the knot of nerves between her legs and pushes her to her own peak.

Not a moment to soon. Jon loses all control when Dany begins to pulse and throb around him. He spills inside her with abandon, barely seeing Sansa slip to Dany’s side, one hand tucked between her thighs as if to sooth the sensitive flesh there. When Jon lets himself collapse against Dany, instinctively rolling to the side to keep from crushing her, Sansa is there behind him, instantly putting her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his shoulder blade. His body throbs, blood clicking through his veins like chains on a winch, and lets himself simply feel. They’ll fall asleep soon, the three of them pressed together just like this, then wake in the night to lose themselves in each other once again, to find themselves in each other. Once he’d thought he’d never know such things with a woman. After Ygritte, he thought he’d never know them again, and it had been worse to know what he was missing. Now he knows these things and more, and knows them without guilt or shame or confusion. Now he knows who he is. Now Jon is content.


End file.
